


Life Is Too Short To Live Without Poetry

by rivlee



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duro's not really on a journey of self-discovery, he's just on a journey period.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaygreekgladiator (ama)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/gifts).



> Thanks to Alex for letting me swipe Shai for a cameo and supporting this whole thing.
> 
> The title comes from Frank Turner’s _Poetry of the Deed_. Featured poem lines in the text appear as follows:
> 
>  _Wild Orphan_ by Allen Ginsberg  
>  _Lives_ by Arthur Rimbaud  
>  _What is in your mind, my dove, my coney_ by W.H. Auden  
>  _Blank Joy_ by Rainer Marie Rilke  
>  _Panteha_ by Oscar Wilde  
>  _Howl Footnote_ by Allen Ginsberg

The paper of the journal felt crisp and heavy in his hands. It was an odd quirk Duro had, of taking pen and pencil to paper to still write down his thoughts. It wasn’t because he didn’t see the value in online blogs or tiny tweets of information, it was just that Duro didn’t _want_ these thoughts to be shared with the world. Especially now, when he had decided to take back his life once and for all. He slipped the journal into his bag and glance down at his still too-thin wrists.

He could’ve died, but he didn’t. That was the one thing he remembered when memory invaded dreams and turned a peaceful night into one of terror. It wasn’t an accident, an attack, or anything so fantastic that almost stilled his heart. It was a bout of pneumonia that went too far. He was better now, back on his feet for months, but he felt constrained in a way he hadn’t before all this happened.

His brother, Agron, meant well. He was the stereotypical definition of an older big brother who would move heaven, earth, purgatory, and hell for his baby brother’s sake. It scared Duro to realize now the depths of that emotion; how Duro would do the same; how they needed to learn to live without each other for a bit.

For so many years, through so many things, it had been Agron and Duro together. Now it would be Agron, here, in their house, and Duro, off to find whatever he needed. Duro didn’t know what that was yet, but the journey itself excited him. He had a plane ticket, and savings, and a doting great-uncle who agreed to fund this possibly foolish enterprise. Duro would remain Peter Pan just a bit longer, as Agron stayed home as Wendy, or Nana, and tried to track him. Duro knew he would, and he wouldn’t let Agron think him dead in a gutter, though looking up at stars, even if part of him wanted to punish Agron for his protection.

It was so much easier to live with ignorance. He was awake now though, and it was time to go. Duro took a picture of the ticket held in his hand as the cab outside honked in annoyance. He sent it to Agron and turned his phone off, anticipating a mailbox full when he turned it back on. 

************************

_DURO_  
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU  
LIKE  
JUST LET ME KNOW YOU’RE ALIVE  
I LOVE YOU BRO  
COME HOME 

He’d flown to Atlanta first, to his great-uncle, and thanked him for the money in person. He only stayed long enough for a good night’s sleep and a tattoo session with Lucius, an older man who seemed to understand a thing or two about needing to run. 

There was a stanza of Ginsberg inscribed in his skin now. It itched and throbbed under his shirt, beneath the bandage, and he could only smile as he thought of it forever carried there.

_to create_  
out of his own imagination  
the beauty of his wild  
forebears—a mythology  
he cannot inherit 

When they were pre-teens Agron had discovered Hunter S. Thompson while Duro found Allen Ginsberg. They both liked Jack Kerouac, but while Agron turned to a life of safety and security, Duro had dreamt of road trips and travel, of supermarkets in California, and the vision of Mannahatta. Now Duro stood in JFK airport, looking out on a city he’d never really visited, as he waited for his boarding call. He could see New York later; other destinations beckoned. 

He sent Agron a picture of the skyline.

_DURO_  
DURO  
BE SAFE YOU FUCKER  
CALL IF YOU NEED ME 

He couldn’t talk to Agron; if he did he’d go running back home. Duro needed to do this, for himself, for both of them. 

***********************

There was a time, post-recovery, when Duro found himself with the internet as his main form of communication. He’d always used it for basic things, but never to find a friendship, until that time when loneliness, waiting, and wanting ate at him from the inside. He joined a small following of those who loved Discworld, and found Nasir. Over the next year he became close as any friend could be, in-person or internet. Duro had once joked about visiting him, and Nasir had claimed the door was always open. Duro hoped that was true, or else he’d need to scramble to find a room for the night.

He found Nasir in London, in a used book shop just across from the British Library, looking far more dignified than expected of a man, and store, with meth addicts and prostitutes strolling not twenty feet away. He was humming along to some pop song on the radio, as dust mites in the pale yellow lamplight flew around his head like some bookworm’s lofty crown. Duro snapped a picture of him, taken in by the half untucked shirt and messy hair piled atop his head, and sent it to Agron as proof of life. The reaction was immediate.

_WHO IS THAT_  
HE’S HOT  
OMG DURO IS THAT WHY YOU LEFT  
ARE YOU DATING HIM  
FUCK YOU  
YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE  
DURO  
DURO  
DURO  
I DIDN’T MEAN THAT  
HE’S HOT  
I WOULD HAVE RUN AWAY FOR HIM  
DURO  
DURO  
COME HOME 

“My brother thinks you’re hot,” Duro said in the solemn stillness of the store.

Nasir looked up, his face blanching for a second, before a laugh tumbled out. “Duro, you’re just what I expected.”

***********************

Auctus was the name of the man who ran a B&B just outside Dublin. He had short hair, dark eyes, and a smile that Duro wanted to lick right off his face. His establishment felt like a real home, and Duro eagerly snuggled down into one of the overstuffed couches even as he eyed the pigeon in the birdcage above his head. He tried to fight the sleep, even as his body started to give into the warmth and safety of the front room. 

He woke up with a cat on his chest and an elderly woman standing over him.

“Please tell me this isn’t a Bates Motel thing,” Duro said as he clutched at his blanket and wondered where Auctus went. 

“It’s a get your fucking ass off our couch thing,” the woman replied. “Bags are in the room, up the stairs, third door on the right. Off with you.”

Duro was too terrified to argue and easily complied, taking blanket and cat with him, only to find Auctus turning down the sheets in his room. 

“This place isn’t big on boundaries,” Duro observed. He meant to shove the cat into Auctus’ arms, but his eyes were caught by a line of text on the inside of his forearm. He turned it over to better read it in the low light.

“You were saying what about boundaries?” Auctus asked. 

Duro paid little attention as he deciphered the swirls of lettering.

_My wisdom is as neglected as chaos is.  
What is my void, compared with the stupefaction awaiting you?_

“Rimbaud?” Duro asked.

Auctus shrugged. “A reaction to a broken heart and the hope for more love to come.”

“And has it?” Duro asked. “You’ve got a feisty old woman down there.”

“That’s Mae, and I’m still looking,” Auctus said, even as his head bowed and fingers traced the lines on Duro’s arm. “Ginsberg?”

Duro nodded. “Formative influences,” was all he said. He dropped the cat on the bed and grabbed his phone. Auctus said nothing as Duro captured the image of their forearms next to each other.

_DURO_  
THAT BETTER BE MARKER  
DURO  
COME HOME 

************************

He’d been in Dublin for two weeks, and a week-and-a-half of that spent in Auctus’ bed, when Duro decided it was time to explore the city like a true tourist. It’d been easy enough to think of Dublin as nothing but the space from Auctus’ bedroom, to the back garden, to the front door and back. It was so much more than that and Duro, journal in hand, felt the need to discover. After breakfast of course. He was comfortable enough here with Mae prattling about in the kitchen, and Auctus’ feet in his lap.

“So if I wanted to do the most stereotypical thing an American tourist could do in Dublin, like, the complete worst, what would you suggest?”

Auctus shrugged. “Go down to the Molly Malone statue in a green bowler hat decorated in shamrocks, waving around a shillelagh, scream _Dubliners Unite!_ and _Erin Go Bragh_. Then Riverdance to a medley of U2 and Bing Crosby, while demanding to be paid in Guinness? Oh, and something about hurling.”

Duro frowned. “That’s too much work. How much will it cost me to get a guided tour.” He slipped his hands up the leg of Auctus’ jeans and squeezed his calves. “I’m all for negotiating prices.”

“But am I willing to accept payment?” Auctus asked, even as he slipped his legs over Duro’s hips. “I think you’ll cost _me_ in the end.”

“I’m worth it,” Duro promised. 

*********************

He’d been in Dublin for a month; that realization, that he hadn’t even noticed the passing of days, made it clear it was time to move-on for a bit. He had some more of the world to see. Auctus wasn’t angry, he wasn’t happy, but he hadn’t kicked Duro out or anything. He’d been understanding, had listened when Duro prattled on about dreams, visions, and plans. They were on their last night together, and Duro wondered how he could already feel homesick. 

Auctus was packing Duro’s bag, properly he had said, and stopped only when he had Duro’s journal placed on top. Duro frowned at the task so easily done, and clutched Clementine the feline, to his chest as Auctus finally slid down next to him.

“So how does it feel to be the perfect stereotype for some privileged white boy going off to see the world in order to find himself, only to return home and write the great American novel?” Auctus asked.

Duro shook his head at the taunt. “I don’t write for anyone else but me. If you publish my journal, should I die here in this bed, I will haunt you until the end of your days.”

Auctus’ fingers were rough as they brushed over Duro’s lips; they tasted of salt, sweat, and them. “I believe you’ll haunt me regardless,” he said. 

Duro let Clementine go and eagerly gave into the pull of Auctus. When Auctus wanted to tease he’d map the lines and planes of Duro’s body with tongue, teeth, and lips, murmuring the words of _Howl_ over the cut of his hips or ridges of his ribs. When he wanted to truly seduce, to turn soft laughter into softer moans, he went to Auden, seemingly able to quote his oeuvre from memory. Duro knew there were other lines soon to be forever inked on his skin, in memory of all the times Auctus had whispered them into his flesh.

_Rise with the wind, my great big serpent;_  
Silence the birds and darken the air;  
Change me with terror, alive in a moment;  
Strike for the heart and have me there. 

He left in the morning, early on a Sunday when the streets of Dublin were all but empty. He left Auctus with a kiss to his cheek, and the fear burning in Duro’s belly, that if he allowed it, he’d never leave. Duro wasn’t really ready to settle yet, so he hoped Auctus understood. He swiped Auctus’ copy of _The Collected Works of Arthur Rimbaud_ and left his journal in its place. At the airport he paid too much money for a spiral bound notebook, but convenience had its cost, so he kept quiet as he waited for his flight. He took a picture of the price tag and sent it to Agron.

_WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT_  
IS THAT A EURO SIGN  
ARE YOU IN EUROPE  
OR IS THAT AN OLD STICKER  
DURO  
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU  
COME HOME 

********************

Duro went to Paris with Auctus’ camera in his bag, and the bruises from his teeth and lips on his body. He didn’t know how long he’d stay here, walk these streets, and see the same sites people had spent centuries dreaming of visiting. It felt too much at once, and just then Duro wished for a travel companion. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of two men sitting together at a café. Their legs were entwined, long, thin ones around shorter, fuller ones, and their hands were clasped, dark skin over golden, as they laughed and drank their coffees, and appeared as one would expect young lovers to be in Paris. It felt surreal, as if it someone set it up, because shit like that only happened in the most typical trashy romance comedies. Yet there they were, both gorgeous men, one with long hair and freckles dotting across his face, the other with close-cut hair and a smile that would entice the most devout religious cleric to a date and a drink. 

Duro didn’t have a chance to close his phone before Agron responded.

_DURO WHO ARE THEY_  
ARE YOU IN A CULT  
A CULT OF SEXUAL DEVIANTS  
WITH TOO WIDE SMILES  
DO YOU NEED ME TO COME SAVE YOU  
DURO  
DURO  
WHERE ARE YOU  
COME HOME 

Duro laughed, hearing Agron’s voice perfectly in his head, and turned and snapped a picture of the Seine. He had no doubt his brother would try his hardest to figure it out, but by the time he did, Duro would be on his way to Spain. First, though, he’d see if he could get the couple to order him one of those delicious coffees. 

*********************

Barca worked in Barcelona, a tour guide for the wayward English-speaking-only tourist who only knew how to count to ten in a Spanish dialect taught to him by an elderly Cuban when he was in elementary school. Duro had studied German in high school, as an attempt to re-learn the tongue of his great-grandparents, but the knowledge had faded with time and lack of use. Barca was cool though, recommended by Auctus, who praised his skills in a way that spoke of something deeper than friendship. 

Duro wasn’t jealous, and knew he had no reason to be when he met Pietros. He was Agron’s age, with a graduate degree from Northeastern, teaching American college students here in Spain. Pietros and Barca were a couple of ridiculously gorgeous hair, who were clearly in love, without being obnoxious about it.

Well, not often. Right now they were sitting on the beach, and Barca was whispering something into Pietros’ ear that made him laugh, blush, and squirm.

“He first learned the best way to get me to kiss him was to quote Neruda,” Pietros explained. 

Duro couldn’t argue with the facts of that one. 

Barcelona was a nice respite, full of a wholly different pace of life. Duro loved it as a vacation spot, but it would never feel like home. The local delicacies enough could cause nightmares. Duro had never seen a monkfish before, and he didn’t know if he wanted to see one after. He _did_ want to torture his older brother though, that much he knew.

“Are you five?” Pietros asked, even as he aided and abetted.

“Yes,” Duro answered. He took a picture of the monkfish as Pietros held open its mouth in the cruel imitation of a smile.

“Why am I doing this?” Pietros asked.

“Wait for it,” Duro said. A beat passed, then another, and suddenly Duro’s phone came to life.

_FCUK_  
HLLE  
STHI  
WHAT THE  
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT  
DURO  
DURO THAT IS NOT A PET  
STEP AWAY FROM THE MONSTER FISH  
FUCK IS THAT ON A PLATE  
DURO DO NOT EAT THAT  
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU  
DO NOT EAT THE MONSTER FISH  
SERIOUSLY DURO  
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU  
COME HOME  
WE HAVE MCDONALDS  
WHICH WILL STILL KILL YOU  
BUT NOT LIKE THAT  
DURO NOW  
COME HOME 

********************

Rome was a city he thought of only in textbooks, paintings, and on television screens. He never thought he’d actually be able to walk the ancient, and ever crowded, streets. The dreamer side of him wanted to claim the winds blew him this far, but he knew it was just a plane flight and a deliberate choice. One last stop before Germany and then, perhaps, Dublin again. Duro looked down at the copy of Rimbaud peeking out his bag; definitely Dublin again. 

Mira worked here, on some archeological preservation thing that Duro didn’t know much about. He just knew Mira was here still, living and working, and being brilliant while married to some former rugby player. She continued to work under her maiden name though, so it wasn’t too hard to find her with the right amount of questions, charming smiles, and sacrificing of money for the greater good. 

“Your brother called me,” Mira said when she opened her office door. “I was wondering when you’d show up. You’re about two months later than I anticipated.”

“I had a thing,” Duro said. He looked around the dusty office of a building probably older than modern medicine. “Can you get out of here for a meal?”

Mira nodded. “Donar should be getting dinner ready soon.”

They lived in a small apartment, the best they could afford, though they made the most of it. Mira didn’t pass judgment or say anything during the delicious dinner. Donar had possibly become Duro’s new favorite cook, after Mae of course, and it wasn’t until night started to inch closer to day that he began to talk.

Mira topped off his wine and Duro started his confession. “I know it’s kind of selfish to run, but I had to. Look, I’m not trying to find Nirvana, Enlightenment, Narnia, or L-space. I’m just trying to find me, or I don’t know, what I _think_ I should be finding in the pursuit of myself. I think I’ve already found what I wanted, as stupid as that fucking sounds, but there’s one thing I promised myself I’d do before I even thought about settling down.”

“So do it,” Mira said. “Get some sleep, and tomorrow, do what you need to do. Then go back to what you found, what made you feel good, or at your best, or the most like you. Then call your brother, Duro, because you need each other, and that’s not a bad thing.”

That night his picture text was of the empty wine bottle.

_SAY HI TO MIRA FOR ME_  
I LOVE YOU BRO  
COME HOME  
WHEN YOU CAN  
COME HOME 

*********************

Duro didn’t remember what part of Germany his family came from, he only knew his great-grandparents came through Ellis Island and settled in the fading ethnic neighborhood lines of what was still Little Germany at the time. 

The cities seemed an obvious place to start. He’d entered by train through Italy and Austria up to Munich. Donar had given him the contact information for one his former trainers and her husband. They were willing to show him around, and though they were strangers, they’d sounded welcoming and enthusiastic over the phone. 

He texted a line of Rilke to Auctus when he arrived. 

_If I've wept for you so much, it's because  
I preferred you among so many outlined joys._

Marcia, and her husband Lugo, were waiting for him, waving a sign and two little American flags. Duro loved them already. He had to send that picture to Agron.

_JUST LET THEM KNOW_  
THAT THEY CAN’T KEEP YOU  
WHEN YOU’RE DONE PLAYING CARMEN SANDIEGO  
COME HOME 

*******************

After two weeks of great company and greater food, he returned to London, to Nasir’s little bookshop, and curled up in one of the chairs there.

“Tired?” Nasir asked.

Duro shook his head. “I’m ready,” he replied.

He opened his phone and pulled up the picture of the monkfish. He added a caption this time. _Guess who wants to say hello_

_FUCK YOU_  
AND YOUR FUCKING MONKFISH  
THAT’S RIGHT  
I GOOGLED IT  
WELL CRIXUS DID  
BECAUSE HE SAID I SCREAMED LIKE A LITTLE GIRL  
AND WANTED TO KNOW WHY  
DURO  
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU 

Duro laughed loud enough to startle the customers; he ducked his head when Nasir glared at him. Duro snatched up one of the bookmarks that contained the store’s business address and a tiny map to navigate the maze of almost identical streets full of shops here. He took a pic and added one last line for Agron’s benefit.

_Olly Olly Oxen Free_

He grabbed his bag from under the chair and walked over to Nasir. He dropped his pohne on the desk. “If that rings, answer it for me.”

“Where are you going?” Nasir asked.

“Dublin,” Duro replied. “The only one who should call is my brother, when he inevitably flies in from Boston tomorrow. Can you do me a solid and meet him there? You’ll love him; big, tall dude with horrible fashion sense who will probably be freaking out and pushing people out of the way to find me.”

Nasir growled, _actually growled_ , at him. “You are exceedingly lucky part of my cold, dead heart still believes in the power of true love. You get one evening with Auctus, then I’m dragging your poor brother to Dublin. I have an in with Diona at the Aer Lingus ticket desk at Gatwick. I will follow your ass.” 

Duro leaned down and kissed Nasir’s cheek. “I am forever in your debt, my dear sweet Syrian prince.”

“Get the fuck out,” Nasir ordered. 

Duro pulled his new phone out of back pocket. Agron’s was the first number he put in, their great-uncle the second, and Auctus the third. Here he kept the contact information for Castus and Shai, Barca and Pietros, Mira and Donar, Lugo and Marcia, of Mae, and of Nasir. A new phone, possible threads of a new life, and one more month until various countries and their governments would start to make noise about a traveler’s visa. He rested the fingers of his free hand over the lines of Auden he’d had tattooed on his chest, ignored the elephant herd chasing butterflies in his stomach, and waited for his call to be answered.

“Do you have a room free?” he asked when he heard the smooth tones of Auctus’ voice.

“Duro,” Auctus said with a laugh. “I’m all booked up, but I might have a couch you could sleep on.”

Duro bit his lip as he started to walk to the tube station. “What about a bedside? Is there one open?”

It was quiet on Auctus’ end for a moment then, suddenly, a happy sigh. “It’s always there for you if you want it.”

“I do,” Duro said. “ _I am too young to live without desire._ ”

“Smartass,” Auctus said. “Don’t quote Wilde where I can’t see you. Where are you now, and when do you arrive?”

“London, King’s Cross to be exact. I’m planning to take the first flight out.”

“I’ll be here,” Auctus said. “Don’t forget my camera.”

“I miss you,” Duro said in reply. 

“Come home,” was Auctus’ answer, sweetly delivered before it ended in a dial tone.

It was probably crass to hum U2’s _I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For_ when he planned to fly to Dublin, but Duro never was a model of class or virtue. He dug out his notebook as he finally took his seat on the train. It was tattered and worn, but it held pictures and postcards of his life since Dublin; little receipts and ticket stubs, grass stains, and wine stains, and food stains. He flipped to the last page and carefully balanced it on his leg. With a click of the first pen he found, red of course, he ended it with one line he was sure Auctus, and later Agron, would understand.

_Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!_


	2. An Addition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I posted this on tumblr, but am sharing here. A glance of the text convo between Agron and Duro once Agron landed in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Seuss' _Oh, The Places You'll Go_ is quoted by Duro.

DURO  
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU  
THERE IS A STRANGE MAN  
AT THE AIRPORT  
WHO IS NOT YOU  
BUT HAS YOUR OLD PHONE  
FUCK  
ARE YOU WORKING  
FOR INTERPOL NOW  
THIS IS WHY  
YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED  
TO TRAVEL ON YOUR OWN

clearly i should’ve told nasir to check your blood pressure  
just go with it ags  
you’ll be fine

AFTER A SLIGHT ALMOST  
MAYBE  
TRAFFIC ACCIDENT  
NASIR SAYS I AM TOO DANGEROUS  
TO GO TO IRELAND BY MYSELF

if nasir’s made up his mind there’s no changing it, bro

DURO WHY DOES MY HAM SANDWICH HAVE BUTTER ON IT  
I THINK NASIR IS TRYING TO KILL ME

knowing how you react in stressful situations, i can’t blame him  
just remember ags  
you have brains in your head  
you have feet in your shoes  
you know the rest

HOW FUCKING DARE YOU BESMIRCH THE GREATNESS OF DR. SEUSS  
OH LOOK I HAVE A POEM FOR YOU  
ROSES ARE RED  
VIOLETS ARE BLUE  
THIS STREET SMELLS LIKE FISH  
I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU

just for that i’m going to tell nasir to find a place in london that serves haggis  
or your friend the monkfish


	3. The Starry Dynamo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duro comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fic drabble in the future of this 'verse. Title and quoted line from _Howl_ by Allen Ginsberg.

It was raining in Dublin, hardly a surprise for the city, but the warmth and humidity were new. Duro was stretched out across their bed, with Auctus’ head pillowed on his stomach, as they both watched the tracks of raindrops against the window. They had yet to leave the room. Mae had indulged them this morning by bringing up food when she let Clementine in to see them. Duro had just returned after three months of dealing with two governments, far too many officials, and swearing up and down that he would be gainfully employed in his new country. Auctus hated leading tours of the city, or leading the tourists to a drink in a pub out of a Hollywood movie set, but Duro enjoyed it. It’d been his unofficial job at the B&B when he was still there as a visitor getting paid with strong arms around his waist at night as warm breath tickled his skin. Duro was still in the process of being welcomed home, and the only guest he wanted to see, other than Mae, was the familiar feline face of his darling Clementine.

Duro laughed at himself then, body shaking Auctus awake, and the study of his body from earlier resumed. Auctus’ fingers traced the lines now inked on Duro’s hip, a permanent reminder of a trip undertaken; he had it done when he flew back to Boston to argue with government officials in person. The tattoo felt like a bookend for that part of his life; the last thing he needed until he started volume two.

_Who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts_

“Why _Howl_?” Auctus asked then, fingertips digging into Duro’s skin.

“Because as a kid newly come to puberty I found it more life-changing than any skin mag or peek at a Cinemax late-night movie. I could hear the words whispered in my ear, and it’s kind of hard to banish the images of sailors on their knees blowing you,” Duro admitted. “As I got older I would re-read and see the sad, true story of lives told and untold there. It was more than just that first flush of reading _cock and endless balls_ for the very first time. I’ve read a lot of post-modernist works since then, and nothing quite gets the edge of it all like _Howl_.”

“Hmm,” Auctus said. “That makes sense for you. Now if you’d only care to inform me why you swiped my Rimbaud twice."

“I left you my story in its place,” Duro teased. He cupped the back of Auctus’ head, slid his fingers through the soft hair there, and sighed when he was rewarded with teasing bites and sucking marks on his hipbones. “I needed a piece of you with me.”

Auctus slid up him in answer, broader fame fitting in all the places Duro missed when he was gone, a familiar weight that made him feel anchored. The hair on Auctus’ chest scratched against Duro’s own, and he laughed even as Auctus laced their fingers together and pressed them gently down to the bed. 

His great-uncle had once told him there were things in life far more intimate than sex. Duro had been the type of kid who thought he knew everything then, and never truly understood that statement until now, with his foot resting above the swell of Auctus’ ass, as they just breathed into each other and relaxed.

“You really are ridiculous,” Auctus fondly said. He nuzzled the lines of Auden permanently marking Duro's chest, words that Auctus had whispered into his skin, sometimes for hours, as Duro had rocked, and gasped, and cried out under him. "Completely ridiculous," he repeated.

It was a truth Duro saw no reason to deny. 

The soft stillness of their world was broken when his phone played the sound alerting him to one of Agron’s text, shaking in its place on Duro’s nightstand. Duro wasn’t quite ready to pull himself from their little bubble of peace yet, so he rubbed his chin against Auctus’ collar bone and tucked his face into the space between neck and shoulder. Auctus’ lips were soothing when they kissed Duro’s forehead and let him stay there without a word.


End file.
